as the evening sun goes down
wild geese fly above the town
a circling pattern in grey skies
with creaking wings and hooping cries
as the darkening hour grows late
i feel that i could levitate
evening
Acceptance
what peace there is
by the fire in the evening
as we sit in a circle together
what joy there is in simple things
late into the night
the firelight glows
i feel my heart expanding
in the blessing music brings
the stars shine high above us
and in all the eyes
i see all around me
that same light shines
after all, most of all
when all is said and done
the stars will all still be there forever
and life is the song that we all share
Nanswhyden
The white gate stands, closed,
at the top of the grey winding road.
The broad green slopes of the pasture
lead down to the shining lake,
a silvered mirror to sunlight.
At first dawn the vale fills with mist.
A line of treetops, drawn on white,
with a tender brush, nothing more.
All is hidden. Nothing exists here now.
It waits to be born with the sun.
An ancient woodland sits in shadow,
deep at the edge of the valley,
where the cry of the circling kestrel
splits the air. He calls to his mate aloft.
The sound defines the distance.
On a hot summer day
the grey road burns and shimmers,
running past old stone walls and banks of wild flowers,
wilting, in afternoon heat.
My feet on the road raise fine dust.
Woven into these hills the grey road runs down
past ruined ivy clothed archways.
They stand alone in a field,
all that remains of a mansion,
a home, and people long gone.
Beyond, is the farmhouse,
built of timber and granite.
It sits as if rooted in earth
nested into a curve,
strong enough to withstand any storm.
In the farmyard the mud is baked hard.
The old sheep dog twitches one ear as I pass.
He knows me too well to rise. He is tired.
His thick coated son wags his tail at me.
He is always on guard.
I walk on past my own cottage door
into a grove of birch saplings,
mingled with older trees, cedar and oak.
In spring this place is flooded with vibrant blue,
the sharp, pungent scent of bluebells fills the air.
In this magical wood, at the far end,
I have often glimpsed the fair folk.
They don’t chase me away. I leave them in peace.
This is a place where two worlds cross.
The door is held open, and welcome.
Now I come to rest in the shade
on this burning bright summer day.
I lean my back against the moss clad old oak
and dream the rest of the day away,
long past this, and every other, evening.
The old standing stone, at the heart of the valley,
remains always cool to the touch.
At night when the stars are out, in moonlight,
the stone is encircled, embraced by a perfect bowl
of such beauty, it takes away my breath.
Grace
emerging from a night that’s almost gone
my mother moved about the kitchen slowly
such quiet grace should herald in the holy
brush strokes of light burst forth and shone
what shadows will the evening bring
when light is low behind the window blind?
if i look out what comfort will i find?
a choir of angels, distant, softly sing
Good Evening
Good evening
The day of death comes when it comes
that’s the sum and the wonder of it,
it teaches us how we should live.
If I find the wait for departure
too gruelling, or late,
I won’t stand about on that grey platform
in the cold, without a companion,
huddled up in a worn out old coat,
my collar turned up and shivering.
So tiresome!
When all is prepared, right and ready
I will die with delight
on a bright moonlit night,
clear stars filling the sky,
I will hold up my soul
to the moonlight above.
I will tell the world
how much I have loved it,
give thanks, state my intention.
strip off the old coat
and accept the warmth
that comes with the cold
in a garden at night
very old.
The rest will be history
written by others
if written at all
in a never ending story
The Dreaming Path 